


Avoid the River

by Officer_Jennie



Series: Tobirama in Mythology [2]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Chinese Mythology & Folklore, Demons, Dreams, Drowning, Founding of Konoha, Horror, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Multi, Possession, Two Endings, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-08-09 20:03:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16456358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Officer_Jennie/pseuds/Officer_Jennie
Summary: Madara bares his teeth, a clear warning. “Do not take from the Nakano. The Uchiha know this. It gives and takes, but never in equal parts.” Coal narrows back at him, voice low with loathing. “You could never afford the price, demon.”Or: The Uchiha know the dangers of kami, they preach caution - but Tobirama has never believed in demons.Multiple endings. Archive warning only applies to the first ending.





	1. Yuki Onna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuki Onna (雪女) - "Snow woman." A malevolent spirit in the shape of a women with long hair, often depicted alongside a cold child. They kill their victims in the snow, or by breathing cold breath on their face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get the first chapter out while it was still the month of Halloween. Hope you enjoy!

Hashirama’s dream had come true.

The Senju Head stands tall, proud, in front of his clan, facing their once sworn enemy. Holds his hand out with a brilliant smile shinning across his sun-kissed face. Madara stares at the outstretched hand, his eyes showing the ware of their battles, face schooled but still worn, tired. He grasps the hand with hesitation, shakes it slow through the booming cheers of their clans.

It was a show. A useless display in Tobirama’s mind. The war had ended months ago. Had ended the moment he’d knocked the Uchiha to the ground, his clan beaten into submission at last after years of resisting the Senju.

His brother had tried to make peace, extended the olive branch over and over. Even as the damned Uchiha lay gasping on his back, blood seeping into the ground, Tobirama’s sword posed and ready to end the madness at last - Hashirama stopped them, begged to be equals, to stand together against the war that the Uchiha himself had pushed them through.

Had offered his own blood as penance, as the last offered to the war gods.

The one good thing Madara had done with his life was grasp Hashirama’s hand, stopping the kunai aimed for his solar plexus.

He narrows his eyes at the two friends, anger boiling under his skin. Hashirama was better than the Uchiha bastard, deserved more than the bloodied monster whose hand he shook.

He will never see it that way. To him, all life is precious, worth fighting to preserve at whatever cost. It’s a stark contrast to the Uchiha he embraces now, the one he calls his dearest friend, who sees only the use of one’s life, not the worth of another.

Tobirama sees it all too clearly, even as he stands to the side, crimson cold and hard as the crowd cheers around him. He sees how little Madara is worth compared to the bright life that is his brother.

 

* * *

 

Madara slams his fist down on the table, shaking the wood under its force, knocking over the glass in front of him. Water seeps into the tablecloth, soaking the gaudy pink into blood-red. Heated fury has his black eyes wild, hatred rolling out of him, hanging dense in the bright kitchen.

He hisses between his teeth, bone white and bared. “Do you know nothing, Senju demon?”

Neither Hashirama nor Tobirama had invited him, both equally shocked when he stormed in, disturbing their evening. The late sun hangs low in the sky, shinning through the window, setting the room ablaze in orange-gold and red. It burns bright behind the mad Uchiha, setting the bristling mane of his ink hair alight with its glow.

Their tea sits forgotten, the relaxing atmosphere lost to the war-hungry energy of man who towers over them.

His fire would burn them all, smoke and ash left in its wake. Tobirama regrets not cutting him down. Konoha has stood tall for months, growing strong and bright, the dead left in the past they died in. All but the dead heavy in Madara's eyes, never put to rest and forever haunting him.

It was the duty of water to put fire out, but Hashirama would never allow it - would never forgive his brother, even if it was to save them from the flames.

“I don’t know why you think it appropriate to disturb a private residence.” The words are bit out, stone cold and sharp. It only fuels the fire.

“Konoha cannot extend to the Nakano.”

“And why not?” Tobirama sneers at him, setting his jaw in challenge. “Where else will we get food? Do you wish us to starve waiting for the fields?”

“We can hunt. Barter.” Madara snaps at him, fingers tight on the table, knuckles white. The wood creaks in protest. “Anything but the river.”

Hashirama speaks up then. His voice calm, his presence a steady assurance to the both of them. “Tobirama’s right, my friend. We need the fish, and the water as well.”

Despite the Senju's stance on the matter, Madara's chakra dies down at the soothing tone, rage dulling down. Still, he bares his teeth, a clear warning. “Do not take from the Nakano. The Uchiha know this. It gives and takes, but never in equal parts.” Coal narrows back at him, voice low with loathing. “You could never afford the price, demon.”

Tobirama shoots up at the threat in his tone, hand at his side, reaching for the weapon holster. But his brother is up just as fast, hands out between them.

The shodaime does not speak again until both of them have calmed, killing intent simmering to a quiet heat.

“We don’t have much to barter, so soon after the war. But we can try at the very least.” He smiles at his friend, lips tight, eyes pleading. “I’ll see what we can do in the meantime.”

Tobirama tries to protest. The Uchiha is being unreasonable, after all, contrary for its own sake. But his brother silences him with a heavy stare, umber eyes baring into his own red. For now, at least, Madara will have his way.

Placated for the moment, Madara goes to leave. He pauses in the doorway, however, palm flat against the bamboo frame. “Spirits have little interest in their own kind.” He tilts his head back, thick locks falling away from his face. Coal meets crimson once more. “A demon would have no need to fear them.”

He shuts the door, the heat of his chakra sucking the house cold behind him.

Tobirama scoffs and goes back to his tea. He pays no mind to the crazy rantings of a madman.

 

* * *

 

“We used to meet there, at the Nakano.”

Hashirama stands in the midst of his garden. Milk thistles and white lilacs reach out for him, breathing in the summer sun.

He looks at peace here, calm and alive, surrounded by what he’s sown. He has grown a village, made the houses and the training grounds and all the gates, but nature has always suited him best. Far more than the bustle of his fellow people, the bright colors framing his tan skin, grass and leaves rustling happy around him.

Tobirama stands at the side, snow against the backdrop of pines and oak. An intruder in this quiet place, scowling at the harsh sunlight, thankful only for the shade protecting his sensitive skin.

“I know where you met him, brother.” He had caught them, after all. Child soldiers sneaking away from the bloodshed, dreaming of a future they couldn’t yet reach. Had ripped apart the budding friendship with no remorse. Fought their sworn enemy there with anger and pride, the river a steady current beneath feet.

The roots had been left, bonds stronger, more resilient than he’d thought they were. He frowns, the red marks across his cheeks pulling down with the movement. His misjudgment had cost them lives, and had taught him well the damned stubborn nature of his brother. The idiot hardly listens to reason.

Hashirama kneels down, knees pressing into the wet earth, oblivious to the soil clinging to his clothes. He cups a lilac in one hand, fingers gentle on the soft bud. Murmurs his praise and hums a tune, encouraging it to grow beautiful and strong. It blooms for him then, white petals pealing back and glowing in the bright sun.

“One of the first times I met him, he was burning incense at the riverside.” The man muses aloud in a low tone, ignorant of how little his company cares for his stories. “He’d brought a picture frame, but hid it quickly when I approached him.”

He pauses once more, moving to coax the thistle away from a lilac, keeping it from suffocating its more delicate neighbor. It seems to respond to his chakra, leaves shaking as he shapes it back, pleased by the attention he dotes on them.

His plants have always been so warm and open with him, so alike the man who grew them.

Hashirama stands back up, turning his head to look at his brother hiding in the shade. “I decided to go for a swim once, waiting for him. The water was cool, and it was an awful summer.” Genuine sympathy and sorrow pinch his brows together, clouding the dark umber of his eyes. “But when he found me, it was like he saw me dead in the river. He cried desperately for me to get out.”

A breeze blows around them, tossing their hair. It feels nice against his neck, cool against the sweat beading on his skin. He watches his brother, how he glances back at his flowers, his gaze unfocused, voice quiet, back in his memories.

“He practically drug me out of the water when he could reach me. Didn’t let me go for nearly an hour. I didn’t understand it then, but…”

He faces him again, umber meeting crimson, holding his gaze. Stares at him as if begging him to understand. “He lost a brother there. Lost him to the current, and never found him. I think he’s worried more will drown there if we’re not careful.”

The story buys him no sympathy. Tobirama crosses his arms, leaning back on the wide trunk behind him. “Such a ridiculous fear is no reason to starve the village.”

Hashirama shakes his head, long hair swaying behind him. It catches on the thorns of his bushes, making him flinch. “The Uchiha believe in the spirits, you know. Believe the forests and rivers are alive.” He fights with the thorns, pricking a finger as he frees his hair. With a slight pout, he sucks the blood away, making a face at the copper taste. “He thinks the Nakano spirit is evil, more demonic than usual.”

“You can’t possibly believe in such nonsense.” Tobirama scoffs. His brother is a child, easily manipulated and coerced. It’s highly probable he’ll buy into this madness if it continues.

His brother shrugs, working on his garden once more, feeling the dirt for moisture. “No, not at all. But it’s Madara’s village just as much as it’s mine.” He peeks over at his younger brother, eyes happy and content. “He’s trying to protect it, in his own way.”

“By saving us from the scary water?” He mocks the idea without care. The stupidity of it all is bringing him physical pain.

“The Uchiha are a clan of fire, after all.” There’s the barest hint of humor at his lips, a light glint in his brown eyes. “It’s only natural to fear your opposite, isn’t it?”

Tobirama leaves him there, to his nonsensical humming and flower growing. He snorts at the superstitious nature of their newest ‘allies,’ and heads back inside to the soothing logic of his research.

 

* * *

 

He is dreaming. He knows this for certain, as he stares at his late-brother, studying the white-black locks that now fall to his shoulders.

Itama had always been pale, white tone identical to his own. He remembers holding their arms against the tan of Hashirama’s, in awe at the contrast it made, the gold undertones so different and warm in comparison.

They’re standing on a mountain side. Snow covers the ground around them, falling from the cloudless sky. In the bright moonlight, Itama seems to glow. The normal brown of his eyes are a dark red, dull rubies that mirrors the ones that study him now.

“Nii-san, I’m cold.”

He reaches out in an instant, pulling his brother in. Small fingers clutch the back of his shirt as he kneels down, tucking the boy's head under his chin. The white silk of the light yukata does nothing against the bite of the wind, and his brother shivers into him. He rubs his hands down the boy’s arms, trying his best to warm him - but Tobirama’s bare fingers are numb, his body shaking as the snow falls on the both them, dusting them in white.

Suddenly, Itama pulls back from him, eyes hard, lips turning down. There’s a dangerous glean in the child’s eyes as they meet his own once more, pinning him in place, freezing his movements. The breath against his face is colder than the wind. Colder still than the snow that is starting to pile on his shoulders and arms.

Those small hands grip his marked cheeks, hold his face still between them. His voice is deeper, older, when he speaks again.

“I can take nothing from you as you are. You have nothing to offer me.” The boy tilts his head. He has the aura of a predator, a hunter disappointed in his prey. It sends fear sparking down his spine, crawling in his skin as the child leans forward to breathe in his ear. “Tell me, Nii-san. When did you become so much like me?”

Tobirama starts awake, shivering despite the summer heat. Feels the biting cold of the small fingers that had gripped his face. Gasps for breath as he clutches at the racing panic and fear in his chest.

He finds no more rest that night. Only stares at the blank white of his ceiling, feeling the dull anger burning inside of himself, seeping hot into his veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misc. Info:  
> Milk thistle symbolizes both nobility and a warning.  
> White lilac symbolizes youthful innocence and memories.


	2. Bōrei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bōrei (亡霊) - A ruined or departed spirit; a ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There's a violent depiction of M/M sex in this chapter.
> 
> Also, though the sections are in chronological order, they don't happen immediately after one another.

There is someone at the river.

He is sitting at the edge of the bank, bare feet in the water, dark pants rolled up to his knees. His face is turned upwards, eyes closed, long lashes brushing his sun-kissed cheeks.

He resembles an Uchiha, lit by the reflecting sunlight flashing off the water. Has their ink-black hair and fawn skin, sharp nose and jaw and noble cheek bones.

There's no hint of the smokey edge to his chakra, no flames bright like his kin's. He feels like the river, calm water ebbing and flowing in the summer breeze.

The boy - a teen, by the build of him - leans back on his palms, a brilliant grin splitting his face open as he looks back at the tree line.

“You don’t feel like an Uchiha.” Tobirama approaches him, observing aloud as he pushes past the wild rhododendrons, dull purple blooming early in the cool weather. Stares down at his face, unabashed, but cannot put a name to him.

The boy throws his head back and laughs, bright and sharp, tossing his dark curls with the movement. Kicks one leg, sending droplets of water shinning in the sunlight that peeks through the thick woods.

“There aren’t many water spirits in the clan, no.” He shoots another wicked grin at his company, winking, amusement dancing in obsidian-black eyes. Gestures with a wave to join him. “Didn’t expect to meet a fellow one here, if I’m honest.”

Tobirama sinks down at his side, crossing his legs beneath himself. Studies him in his periphery, crimson dark and wary despite the mellow calm of the boy's energy.

“I thought the Uchiha avoided the river.” He doesn’t try to hide the mocking in his voice, the angry sneer at his mouth.

“Guess I didn’t get the memo.” He shrugs one shoulder, light hearted and unoffended, watching the water bubble over the pebbles at his feet.

“There aren’t many who come here nowadays.” He sounds sad as he speaks, distant. Tobirama hums in reply, losing interest in the paradoxically calm Uchiha at his side.

A loud, puffing sigh has him tilting his head anyway.

“It’s a shame, really.” The boy pulls his feet from the water and stands, stretching his arms over his head and cracking his neck. Black eyes stare into him, filled with regret and quiet yearning. “I can tell already you’re too much like me. You’d never stay.”

With a small wave, he walks off away from the river, disappearing into the dense oaks and pines. Tobirama stares after him for a time, curious once more, but goes back to watching the Nakano. The rushing water against jutting rocks deepens his breathing, cleans his senses - but the dull ache of fury does not lessen. It never leaves him.

 

* * *

 

“Madara’s insisting on shutting off the Nakano again.”

Hashirama is in his kitchen, tending the herbs he keeps on the counter top. He waters his lemon balm and rosemary, checking their rich soil, and makes sure to pay extra care to Mito's potted dill. His low humming lilts through his words, tune nonsensical and soft and all his own.

The scratch of his pen pauses, notes forgotten mid word as he lays the parchment back down on the table. “The Uchiha don’t see reason. He clearly wants us to starve.” Tobirama scoffs, irritation twitching his nose and sparking in his eyes.

“He’s starting to worry me.” The humming stops. Hashirama sets his watering pot down, stepping over to kneel on the cushion opposite his brother. “I don’t think he’ll ever recover from Izuna’s passing, not at this rate.”

“We’ve all lost people.” He reaches back for his notes, long weary of this thrice repeated discussion. “We lost brothers to the war, too.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Hashirama ducks his head, catching his brother’s eyes. Their dark umber bares into him. “But we buried the past with them. I don’t think he’s done the same. He lives with it every day, sees them every time he sees _you_.”

At the implication, Tobirama snarls. “I will not apologize for killing Izuna. He was my enemy.”

“But Madara’s not, not anymore.” There is an urgent edge to his voice, a desperate tightness in his eyes. “He needs to hear that you’re sorry.”

“I’m not sorry." He spits the words. The hate he felt for the Uchiha did not rot away with his death. It is still fresh, a weeping wound unwilling to scab over or heal. He feels no regret for cutting him down, no remorse for his remaining family. The Uchiha dug his own grave, and he can lie in ash in it.

His brother sighs, scratching at a stain on the tablecloth, the dried food flaking off under his nails. “I’ve been having dreams lately…”

Tobirama eyes him, not trusting the conversational shift, ready to bite if he pushes the issue further. But Hashirama merely shakes his head, a wistful smile touching his lips.

“I’ve been dreaming about Itama, and Kawarama.” Tobirama pauses at the names, pen still, paying attention to the emotions that flash across his brother's face. “I used to dream of them all the time, back in the war.”

Hashirama picks up a stray pen, twirling it between tan fingers. The metal flashes in the evening sun, a flicker of light dancing on the table between them.

“Mito says it’s a bad omen. That the dead should stay at rest, where they belong.”

“And what do you think?” His tone is wry, ruby eyes focusing back on his research. He has never cared for Mito’s superstitions, how she sets wards to repel spirits, hangs talismans in the windows and doorways. Her paranoia will only encourage the Uchiha to preach more of his fear mongering.

“I just wish I could remember their voices. I've forgotten.” His smile is sorrowful, all regret and longing and not a touch of joy. Tobirama only feels the sharp spike of loathing, burning for the clan that stole them away far too soon.

 

* * *

 

In the late night, woods thick and dark around them, pale white skin glowing in the moonlight, they are feral.

Madara pushes him back, ripping his clothes, clawing at his skin. Leaves marks, raised and red, on his back and down his arms. Snarls and snaps as he ruts into him.

He is an animal, violent and unrelenting. But Tobirama fights back, biting his neck, his shoulder. Tastes bitter copper and growls, scratching bloody patterns into his chest and back. Digs a heel in and fucks himself on the blunt cock, teeth bared and wild.

It suits the Uchiha well, the animal that he is, to pin him against the rough bark, use him so savagely - but the Senju uses him right back, steals his own pleasure from the raw hatred of their rutting.

In the aftermath, Madara stutters back, withdraws from him. Touches his inner thighs with hesitation, running his fingers through the mix of blood and semen seeping out of him. Brings them up and stares, the fierce burning of his coal eyes dulled and aching. Looks sick at the mess, sick with himself, regret a lump in his throat.

“And here I lay with a demon.”

Tobirama pushes him off, sneering. Pulls together the scraps of clothes he has left and flashes away, ignoring the jarring pain as he lands in his living room.

Hatred licks under his skin, sated and purring. Satisfied knowing the monster has not changed.

He corners the Uchiha again not a week later. Finds him in the training fields, sets his anger ablaze, the fire of his chakra wild once more - and has Madara fuck him into the wet earth of the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower language:  
> Rhododendrons - "Danger" or "flee"  
> Dill - "Powerful against evil"  
> Lemon balm - "Sympathy"  
> Rosemary - "Remembrance"


	3. Nan Gui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nan gui (男鬼) - The male counterpart to the more common nü gui (女鬼). Similar to the western image of a incubus, they suck the yin/yang essence from their victims. The demons are created from a past wrongdoing, such as a rape or violent death. Often depicted as wearing red to symbolize their desire for vengeance.

"You look tired." Mito is sitting at the low table, plush cushion beneath her, the rich wood of the gazebo creaking in the wind. She grips her shodō brush steady, upright, wine-purple eyes focused on her canvas. Her brush strokes are slow and sure, each drip of black ink purposeful, each lift and dip lending herself to the art.

Tobirama stares off into the private garden, following the lines of the flowing rocks, how they seem to ripple away from larger, moss-covered stones sitting like islands in water. Giant swallowtails flutter in the cool breeze, laying eggs on the rue bushes, on the soft yellow petals and blue-green leaves.

He swats at one that flies too close, frowning at it tries to land on his shoulder. He takes care not to actually harm the creature, not to touch the delicate yellow-black of its wings, aware that Mito planted the bushes to attract such things. "I've not been sleeping well."

"And what do you dream of, when you do?" Red brows furrow but she does not lose her focus, does not look up from thick, dark lines forming at her hands.

"Of my brother. Of Itama."

As she lifts from the last stroke, she pauses, brush still in the air, bristles bent and soaked from frequent use. She places it on a wet cloth, head up away from the table, so as to not stain the light tan of the wood.

She studies the finished product with a critical eye, bold calligraphy on white canvas, still wet ink shinning in the mid spring sun.

When she at last looks at him, pupiless eyes pin him in place, gaze heavy and serious. "It bodes ill to dream of the dead." She stands, spring kimono flowing at her feet as she approaches him. Pulls a talisman out from inside her sleeves, red cloth embroidered with gold thread, white string at its top, and pushes it into his hands.

"Keep it near, even as you sleep. It will ward of the spirits."

Despite its small size, the silk bag sits heavy in his bare palm. He scowls at it, but does not dare reject a gift from his brother's wife, tilting his head down in thanks, white fringe hiding his crimson eyes.

Just looking at it makes him itch. Reminds him of the Uchiha and their idiotic superstitions and beliefs. He tosses it to the ground on his walk home, leaving it in the dew-damp grass. He does not want such a pointless object in his home.

 

* * *

 

He is cloaked in red, a splash of rich color against the dull carob-brown of the quiet woods. Silk kimono dark garnet, eyes deep rubies, chakra fire heat, red red red.

Tobirama is drawn to him, grasping at the smoking hair billowing behind him. Pulls himself in and tastes the pink-red of his lips, feels desire scorching through his veins.

Madara laughs against his lips, eyes smoldering, staring into his bare soul. The sound resonates, has Tobirama shaking, arching forward, held together only by the hot hands heavy on his hips.

"Please." He's not sure what he's begging for, only that he wants it,  _needs_ it. Needs to be consumed by the flames at his fingertips.

"What could I take from you?" Madara purrs in his ear, hands running up his sides, around his back. Tobirama moans, fire licking under his skin. Closes his eyes, and feels like he's falling.

"You have nothing to give me."

The words are ice in his veins. Madara pulls away, sapping the warmth from his limbs, leaving him hollow.

He cries out, stumbling forward. Tries to grip the rich fabric of his clothes and pull him back, but Madara's too far gone to reach, slipping from his grasp.

" _Please_." Desperation chokes him, tears blurring the edges of his vision. His voice breaks on a sob.

"We are too alike, you know." Madara runs a hand through ink-black hair. It lays like ash against his pale white skin, the garnet of his clothes, the fire in his eyes. Against the red red red, the crimson of his soul.

Madara studies him, eyes hot, burning down his body - and Tobirama's cold gaze follows.

He is covered in blood. It soaks through the dark blue of his shirt, the light of his hakama, staining snow white skin. Drips off of his long fingers into the wet earth at his feet, running like water.

He awakens in a cold sweat, cursing, the late spring night chill around him. Grips the hard length between his thighs and gasps, strokes rough and fast. Tastes Madara's name on his lips as he comes, stomach clenching with his release - and bitter disgust thick on his tongue at the monster who brought it to him.

 

* * *

 

"You weren't always like me, were you?"

The Nakano is higher than usual, heavy summer rains near flooding the bank. The boy, Shisui, sits at the edge of the river, despite the dangers of the fast current at his feet. His clothes are damp, dark curls dripping and heavy from his dip in the water.

Splashes of purple sway in the breeze around them, rhododendrons in full bloom, bushes spreading further and further from the tree line with each passing season.

Tobirama has come here several times, met with the Uchiha at the river. His company is neither comforting nor unwelcome - he simply is, chakra blending into the river as if he belongs.

His barking laughter ripples through the humid air, echoing around them. "Hell,  _I_  wasn't even always like me."

"Do you always speak in nonsensical riddles?" Tobirama grouses at him, gaze hard as he watches the water rushing forth, crashing into the sides of the bank.

"Only when I like my company." The teasing grin is short, a flash of bone white teeth. Tobirama huffs in reply, and tries to skip a stone across the river. It hits hollow, sinking heavy into the dark of the water below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower language:  
> Rue - "Clear Vision" or "grace"
> 
> Misc. Information:  
> Shodō - Japanese calligraphy  
> From what I've seen in pictures, Mito's eyes are just kinda black in canon - though the only written info on them is that she has no pupils. I wanted to give her some color, so changed her eye color.  
>   
> Rue scrubs are planted in a lot of different types of gardens: butterfly gardens, herb gardens, rock gardens, etc. They are also great for repelling insects like the Japanese beetle, and can even be dried for the same use. They were also used in traditional medicine, but it's been proven the plants were actually harmful to the human body.


	4. Mogui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mogui, or Mogwai (魔鬼) - Malevolent spirits that inflict harm upon humans. It translates as "monster," "devil," or simply "demon." The "Mo" is derived from the Sanksrit "Mara." In Hinduism and Buddhism traditions, Mara are tempters and personify harmful impulses. The Mara cause people to sin and self-destruct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Blood and gore ahead, as well as gross depictions of someone being ill.

They lay in the mess of futon covers, uneven breaths and sweat slicked, stained and splattered in white and red. Tobirama feels ill, chest tight and bile in his throat, blood and semen itching as it dries on his skin. He turns, rolling onto his back, wincing at the pain shooting up his spine, back burning as it presses the fresh marks into the ripped and ruined covers beneath them. Looks over at Madara. Sees the Uchiha rolling red-gold strings between calloused fingertips, embroidered silk bright in the moonlight streaming through the cracks of the curtains.

He snarls, sudden and violent, wrenching the talisman from his hands and hurls it across the room. It lays limp on the floor, the feel of it still sick in his gut, fingers hot where they touched the damn cloth.

"There isn't a single one of you that has any sense." He spits the words, outraged, raking long fingers through his wet hair. Madara stills, eyes wary and guarded. Watches the twitch of his red eyes, the curl of his lips, his jerky movements. Feels the dark aura of the boiling water chakra just beneath the surface of him.

Tobirama breathes deep through his nose, calming breaths to ground himself, but it does nothing to dampen the licking flame of his fury. He glares over at the Uchiha. At the animal that fucked him raw and wild, left dripping red on his back and down his thighs, bit black and purple into the canvas of his white skin. Scorched his being with fire-heat, suffocating and dense in the stale air of the bare room.

Remembers a calm aura, water flowing beneath that same skin tone, laughing coal eyes and damp curls and a wicked grin.

"There's one," he admits, voice still rough, staring at the foreign beige of the ceiling. Traces the lines of dried paint strokes with his gaze, patterns nonsensical and dull to his mind.

The night is quiet, autumn crisp and sky clear. A heavy moon hangs high, trees red and brown and violet, the smell of damp decay in the air. A cricket sings, arrhythmic and alone, just outside the windowsill. The house feels small, dark room shrinking around them, shadows looming, thick and unbearable.

This is Tobirama's first time here, and he plans it to be his last.

"Ready to admit we're people, demon?" His breathing has calmed, but his voice is gruff, gaze focused on the bare wall. There's deep hurt in his tone, a quiet acceptance, no wistful hope in his words.

"I can stand Shisui, that's all." Tobirama pushes himself up, reaching for his discarded clothes, a slight shiver against the chill of the air. Mumbles, an afterthought, "He's hardly worth the time I give him."

"Shisui?" Coal eyes widen, a breath caught in his throat. Whatever emotion causing his heard to race is lost to the retreating man, unseen and unworthy of his attention.

"The one that goes by the river." He offers the explanation with a bored shrug of his shoulder, a roll of his stiff neck. Glances around the room once more, a sneer wrinkling the tip of his nose, and leaves the monster's den without another word.

A flash of hand-signs, a flicker of his chakra - and he's knocked to his knees, onto the cold wood of his living room, crashing waves of nausea, pressure crushing his head. Feels Mito's energy through his house, foreign wards placed without his consent, burning him from the inside-out.

He rips the wards apart with his own energy, vision red, thoughts a haze of loathing and bright rage. Falls into his futon after, limbs limp yet body buzzing with anger and the lingering remnants of pain.

A talisman hangs in his widow, shadow dark in the moonlight. It mocks him in his home, and he stares at it, with curled lips and grinding teeth. He has no energy to deal with it now. His eyes slide closed, body unmoving, and is drug down into the world of his dreams.

 

* * *

 

He is on a battlefield.

Soldiers fight without seeing him, steel sparking as they clash. Fire and earth and lightning are hurled through the air, striking through and charring flesh, warriors felled with aborted screams tearing out of their throats. Their corpses lay in the muck and mud, faces blank and blood pooling dark around them.

He spots himself in the midst of it all, armor plated, a sword slick in his hands, movements sure. Watches himself strike an opponent down, facing the next with a twirl, sweat coating his face and eyes alight with battle fury.

Sees his sword find its mark, stabbing through an Uchiha's chest -  _Izuna's_ chest - tip dripping crimson as it sticks through his back. Sees the flash of white as he grins, face splashed in red as Izuna chokes, hacking thick globs of blood up out of his lungs. Coal eyes fading, dull, as he slides off the blade to the soaked earth.

Time slows to a crawl, and something moves within him. He sees it beneath his skin. A corruption, vile and hot, oil in his veins. Manic laughter bursts forth, black lines against white skin, hair tinted pink-red in the wake of his slaughter.

The Uchiha fall, one by one, at the flash of his steel. Guts and screams fly, air thick with the stench of body fluids and rotting death. His grin, wide and wild; his movements increasingly jerky, unnatural, inhuman.

One last Uchiha in his war path. Madara is knocked to his back, mane weighed down by the bloody muck of the earth. His breath catches, blood in his throat, dripping out of his mouth and coating his lips.

Tobirama towers over him, feral, sharp teeth bone white, burning eyes and black veins.

Hashirama's not there to stop him. No one is. He stabs the tantō into the stuttering heart beneath him, the sound wet and sick. Pulls it out, and plunges it back in, into his sternum, then stomach, lungs, intestines, chest once more - marks him over and over, blood spurting and wounds weeping.

The man's long dead by the time he's done. Tobirama's face is split with sick glee, laughter shaking his torso, head thrown back, white hair falling back and dripping red.

His final act is to turn the blade on himself. Cuts his stomach as he kneels on the ground, black tar leaking out of him, thick and oozing, arranging his organs by tradition.

There is no kaishaku to aid him, to cut off his head and end the suffering. He continues until he is empty, nothing but a husk of white bones and skin, still kneeling over the once proud Madara. Still grinning, manic and mad, down at his foe, until at last he crumbles, ash and dust in the wind whipping across the battlefield.

He wakes to bile in his throat, and vomits violently onto the tatami, hands and knees pressed into the floor. The black sick leaves him empty, cold regret settling where hate and loathing kept him warm. Chokes on a sob, shaking, desperately wiping at the grey-black slime on his lips, spitting the oil from his mouth, dripping down his chin.

 

* * *

 

 

Tobirama hadn't meant to come back.

Even in the late autumn, the crisp night at his bare arms, biting at his red-marked cheeks, the house is warm. Inviting. It smells of rich spice, nutmeg and faint ash and fire.

Madara's chakra smolders in his sleep, still hot and large but quiet, flickering around him, licking the quiet dark of his room. It draws him in before he can stop himself, and he slides into the futon, under the warmth of the heavy blankets. He reaches out, feeling the soft of ink-black hair spilling through his fingers, against his cheeks. Breathes in the smoke and weapon oil, the heady musk of the man.

Senses the sharp spike, wary surprise in the fire-heat chakra as Madara stirs next to him.

How many times had he hurt this man, now so pliant in his arms, arching back into him, soft skin under his calloused hands?

In the late night, house black and still, silence only cut by breathless gasps and beating hearts, moonlight hidden behind black-red curtains drawn shut, they move together.

Tobirama pushes into him for the first time, slow and sure. Kisses the sharp hiss from his lips, swallows his guttural moans, his hot breaths. Soothes a palm over his hip, running it across the flat of his stomach, following the hitch of his breath. Rubs it over the slick of his cock, over the blunt head, hips and breaths stuttering as they dance.

Madara falls heavy against his chest, content and warm in his arms, falling back to earth. Listens to the rhythm of his heart, head tucked under a red-marked chin, mane damp with sweat and wild around them. Closes his eyes against the night, relaxing into the embrace of his once sworn enemy.

Admits aloud, voice barely above a whisper. "I used to hate you. You were a demon."

His chakra is warm, home and hearth, not quite bright but a beacon still, flowing around them. Breath still abnormal, a puff on his skin, sending chills across his chest. Swollen lips against his throat, soft kisses on his pulse point. A confession murmured between them.

"You're all that keeps me here."

Tobirama's fingers tighten, arms pulling him close. His buries his nose into ink-black hair. His chest shakes with his regret, a sob tearing raw at his throat, guilt and sorrow constricting his lungs - and he begs to be forgiven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misc. Terminology:  
> Kaishaku - Someone who assists in ritual suicide, or seppuku
> 
> There's only one chapter left! I have a lot of fun writing these sort of mythological/supernatural stories, especially concerning Tobirama. If anyone has any suggestions, or knows any cool myths or legends they'd like to see written about, please let me know! :)


	5. Shui Gui

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shui gui (水鬼) - The spirits of people who have drowned. When the spirit drowns another, it takes control of the new victim's body. They are constantly seeking for a new body to take over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“Do not take from the Nakano. The Uchiha know this. It gives and takes, but never in equal parts.”_  
>  There's some flashback dialog in this chapter. It's stand alone in italics.
> 
> Edit: This story is now going to have two endings. This chapter is the original one, and does not end happy (see: story warning - Major Character Death). Chapter 6 is an alternate ending that has no major character death.

_“Konoha cannot extend to the Nakano.”_

The bite of winter is still in the air, Fire Country only in spring by technicality. Melted snow from the towering cliffs upriver has the banks flooded, rhododendrons rotting in the thick mud at the riverside.

Despite the frost on glossy green leaves and soft pink-purple petals, the rest of the bushes are in full bloom, bright color in contrast with the dull of the forest, deep brown bark and empty skeletons of trees, thin green needles dripping wet, the woods weeping as winter attempts to leave.

He sits down on the soft damp of a fallen log, rotten wood beside him soggy and eaten away by insects and hardy mushrooms. The dead sits framed by the wild bush flowers, and he stares out away from the forest at his back, past the sagging brown-black of the dead bushes to the rushing water ahead of him. Stares at the crashing white-light blue, gaze unfocused, the white noise of water becoming the backdrop to his self-reflection. Thoughts roll through his mind like waves, regret and uncertainty peeling back his past actions, pulling sand from underneath him until he no longer knows where he should stand.

Shisui sits next to him, a still counterpart to the hurried flow of the Nakano. Watches him, face half-turned and neutral, the coal of his eyes harder than before. His clothes are soaked through, black shirt and pants a second skin, dark curls dripping down his cheeks. He does not shiver from the cold. His breath does not fog before him.

There's something foreign, something sharp and spiked about him that Tobirama hadn't sensed before, but he pays no mind to it now. He had assumed so much in the past, seen things, people, as foul and grotesque and inhuman, unworthy of his time or patience.

Had been so wrong before, and never wants to repeat that.

_“You could never afford the price, demon.”_

"Maybe," Shisui muses, taking the time to taste each syllable as he speaks, "we're not as similar as I once thought we were." His tone is light, unconcerned, conversational. His eyes are dark, guarded, watching Tobirama as he watches the river.

He pulls his legs up, sandals on the rotten wood, resting a marked chin on his knees. Doesn't bother to respond to Shisui's endless riddles, used to the boy's habit of musing aloud, speaking to himself. Instead, he listens to the water, wishes the sound to wash through him and quiet his mind.

"It's a calm place, isn't it?" He tilts his head at Tobirama's hummed reply, wet curls falling back from his face, leaving a trail in their wake. "Would you like to stay a while?"

This time, Tobirama gives an absent nod in reply, barely paying attention to his company, used to the feel of the boy despite the new edge to his chakra. The still of the forest at his back is peaceful as it is eerie, the aura beside him quiet and sharp. The rushing water before him calming and dangerous, overflowing the high banks, water seeping deep into the earth and dead grass.

He doesn't hear Shisui, doesn't feel the air around them being disturbed as he moves. Only feels the sharp smack of a stone crashing into the back of his skull, the sudden rush of blinding pain blurring his vision, and then the ice cold of the Nakano as he's thrown into the water.

The cold settles into him, a haze in his mind. Numbness in his limbs. He fights it, forces his arms to reach out. Fingers slicing through the water, digging into rocks and mud, the side of the river. Nails break, blood turning pink from his head. Lungs burning, legs heavy and weighed down, cold burning, his skin numb. Sight blurry and lungs _burning_.

His chakra is unresponsive, and for the first time in his life, Tobirama fears the water. Knows it will bring him death even as he claws at the side of the river, desperate to be freed from its grasp.

His head breaks free. He gasps. The river crashes into him, pulling him down again. He bobs in the current, grabbing at exposed roots and dead grass, fingers slipping, unable to hold on.

A shadow over him, blocking out the pale sunlight - then a hand clenching the back of his collar, hauling him to safety. He hits a broad chest, coughs violently, water forced out of his lungs, burns in his throat. Breathes in ash and flames and weapon oil, clings to the dense fire-home-safety surrounding him. Grips the man tight, shaking uncontrollably with the overwhelming sense of fear and cold and  _alivealivealive_.

Madara holds him at the riverside, crouched down in the slick mud, all warm hands and soothing tones and critical eyes. Rubs patterns into the wet clothes stuck to his back, hushes his desperate sobs and holds him close in his arms.

_“He lost a brother there. Lost him to the current, and never found him. I think he’s worried more will drown there if we’re not careful.”_

"The river gives and takes." The old warning is murmured into soaked white hair. The deep baritone calms his nerves, rolls through him. Reminds him of quiet nights and soft touches beneath cool sheets, makes him feel safe and  _alive_.

Rough fingers card through his wet hair, scratching at his scalp with blunt nails, have him nuzzling further into the heat of him. "I wonder..."

_"You're all that keeps me here."_

The hands pause, silence broken only by the rough rasp of his breaths, the steady pulse in that broad chest, the rushing water behind him.

"What would the river give for you?"

He didn't get to ponder the question before he was thrust backwards. His back hits the Nakano hard, hits a solid being waiting in the water.

A flash of dark curls and bone white teeth, and he's drug back down, water dark, pressure heavy in his lungs, too dark, blood cold in his veins and slow in his heart and it's dark, dark, dark.

 

* * *

 

Madara stares down at the river, at the deep dark of the Nakano. His lover's thrashing had left ripples in the water, a disturbance erased near instantly by the current as he sank into its depths, far beyond the reach of the bank, the safety of solid ground.

He runs a thumb over the silk laying against his palm, rough pad scratching over the fine thread, the burgundy embroidery stitched fine into his talisman. Watches the water with a sick weight in his chest, black eyes flickering across the river's surface, searching for a glimpse, any hint of black, uncertainty clenching in his stomach.

Whispered confessions run through his mind, each word, each truth a fresh wound on his heart. He had meant it all, feels it still. Loves the man he once saw a demon. But he could not, cannot, forget that name, spat as an exception over one pale white shoulder in the dark of his room, blood and sweat and semen heavy in the air around them.

There's a light shuffling behind him, the hiss of clothes against the thicket of wild flowers, and he's whipping around, coarse black hair stinging his face as it whips with him-

And the air rushes from his lungs, eyes wide and heart frantic.

He hadn't changed one bit, even after all these years.

The boy is small, no older than four, weighed down heavily by his soaked shirt and pants. Black curls are stuck to his face, dripping down his pale cheeks. Wide black eyes overflow with tears, small hands curled into tight fists, wiping furiously at the corners of his big eyes. Hiccups rake out of his frame as he stumbles forward, shaking violently from his cries and the cold, fighting through the brush.

"Shisui?" Madara's voice is small, soft. Softer still than the wet silk in his hand. The boy's gaze shoots up to meet his own, doe wide, shaking hands and a quivering lip. Uncertainly clouds his eyes, sprinkled through with fear and hesitation and the smallest hint of hope - but there is no recognition, no warmth or pride or awe as there once was.

He approaches him, steps light and palms open, as nonthreatening a presence as he can be. He crouches down to his level and the boy pouts, his whole being shaking from the leftover chill of winter.

"I'm cold." He sounds pitiful, and Madara's pulling him close in an instant, picking him up and tucking those wet curls up under his chin. He presses the silk talisman into those icy fingers as he stands, clutching Shisui tight to his chest, as if to never let him go, to never lose him again.

"Let's get you home." He mutters the words into those wet, dark curls, a gentle kiss placed on the crown of his head. "I've got you now, otouto."

 

* * *

 

Itachi makes his way towards the river, anbu mask firm on his face, sword on his back. Keeps his eyes and ears open, obsidian black peering through the slits of white porcelain, scanning the ground below him as he leaps through the trees, a blur of black and fawn skin through the forest.

The Uchiha own the river, own the land and woods around it for miles. Had owned it for a hundred years, determined to keep the area pure, safe, shut off from civilians and the other clans.

He runs a hand over his chest absently as he lands on a low branch. It is only one night without it, one patrol. The forest has always seemed safe, familiar, a second home to him by now. There is no reason for the trees to feel so close, for the air to feel heavy, the normal quiet to be so dense and suffocating.

One night, one patrol. His necklace lay forgotten on his nightstand, where he’d put it after his bath the night before. The ward etched into the cool metal is a comfort to him, pressed against his skin every day since he could walk, a weight around his neck as familiar as the warmth in his parent’s eyes.

He lands on the riverbank, amidst the wild bushes blooming purple in the late summer. His steps are silent, chakra stretching out to sense for anyone nearby, looking for trespassers. The leaves rustle in the wind, hissing together above him, thin branches reaching out as if to touch each other, communicating.

One night, he reminds himself. One patrol, and then he’s home, dinner waiting hot on the table, his mother’s gentle smile as he walks through the door, his father’s quiet pride as he reads the paper. Sasuke’s thundering stomps as he burst through the room, flinging his small body into his arms with all the care of the child he is.

“There aren’t many who come here nowadays.”

The voice has him whipping around, a kunai and several shuriken already in hand as he falls into a defensive stance.

A man stands at the riverbank, not a dozen feet away. His hair and skin are snow white, eyes crimson and sharp as they watch the water, chakra a massive swell of water. His presence is overwhelming, dense around them with an edge of malice, and so strong it alarmed Itachi that he hadn’t felt the man approach.

“Non-Uchiha shinobi are not permitted here.” He keeps his voice calm, firm, but his heart is racing, fear prickling at the back of his neck, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Those blood red eyes are on him now, staring through him as if he were a ghost, and everything in him is screaming to run and not look back.

One shoulder shrugs, bored, the light blue material bright in the moonlight. “Guess I didn’t get the memo.” He half turns, red lines dark on his cheeks and chin, pointing towards the flash of a wicked grin, of bone-white teeth. “Tell me, Uchiha, would you like to stay a while?”

Itachi’s breath quickens, eyes wide with panic and dread, and his blood runs cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 終わった! Thanks so much to everyone who read this! I loved writing this story and am so happy for the feedback I've gotten from it :)
> 
> If there's anything that needs to be clarified, or any questions at all, feel free to ask!
> 
> Also, as I said at the end of the last chapter, I'm open to suggestions of what demons/myths Tobirama should face next!


	6. Alternate Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate ending - Tobirama doesn't die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was sorta kinda challenged to write an alternate ending to a fic, and I chose this one - though I've honestly been considering writing a happy ending for this for a while now. So yeah, it happened.
> 
> Quite a bit is taken from the original ending. This was also written in about an hour, and is for the most part unedited. No major character death, and heavy implication that Madara and Tobirama stay together long after the ending (because they do).

_“Konoha cannot extend to the Nakano.”_

The bite of winter is still in the air, Fire Country only in spring by technicality. Melted snow from the towering cliffs upriver has the banks flooded, rhododendrons rotting in the thick mud at the riverside.

Despite the frost on glossy green leaves and soft pink-purple petals, the rest of the bushes are in full bloom, bright color in contrast with the dull of the forest, deep brown bark and empty skeletons of trees, thin green needles dripping wet, the woods weeping as winter attempts to leave.

He sits down on the soft damp of a fallen log, rotten wood beside him soggy and eaten away by insects and hardy mushrooms. The dead sits framed by the wild bush flowers, and he stares out away from the forest at his back, past the sagging brown-black of the dead bushes to the rushing water ahead of him. Stares at the crashing white-light blue, gaze unfocused, the white noise of water becoming the backdrop to his self-reflection. Thoughts roll through his mind like waves, regret and uncertainty peeling back his past actions, pulling sand from underneath him until he no longer knows where he should stand.

Shisui sits next to him, a still counterpart to the hurried flow of the Nakano. Watches him, face half-turned and neutral, the coal of his eyes harder than before. His clothes are soaked through, black shirt and pants a second skin, dark curls dripping down his cheeks. He does not shiver from the cold. His breath does not fog before him.

There's something foreign, something sharp and spiked about him that Tobirama hadn't sensed before, but he pays no mind to it now. He had assumed so much in the past, seen things, people, as foul and grotesque and inhuman, unworthy of his time or patience.

Had been so wrong before, and never wants to repeat that.

_“You could never afford the price, demon.”_

"Maybe," Shisui muses, taking the time to taste each syllable as he speaks, "we're not as similar as I once thought we were." His tone is light, unconcerned, conversational. His eyes are dark, guarded, watching Tobirama as he watches the river.

He pulls his legs up, sandals on the rotten wood, resting a marked chin on his knees. Doesn't bother to respond to Shisui's endless riddles, used to the boy's habit of musing aloud, speaking to himself. Instead, he listens to the water, wishes the sound to wash through him and quiet his mind.

"It's a calm place, isn't it?" He tilts his head at Tobirama's hummed reply, wet curls falling back from his face, leaving a trail in their wake. "Would you like to stay a while?"

This time, Tobirama gives an absent nod in reply, barely paying attention to his company, used to the feel of the boy despite the new edge to his chakra. The still of the forest at his back is peaceful as it is eerie, the aura beside him quiet and sharp. The rushing water before him calming and dangerous, overflowing the high banks, water seeping deep into the earth and dead grass.

He doesn't hear Shisui, doesn't feel the air around them being disturbed as he moves. Only feels the sharp smack of a stone crashing into the back of his skull, the sudden rush of blinding pain blurring his vision, and then the ice cold of the Nakano as he's thrown into the water.

The cold settles into him, a haze in his mind. Numbness in his limbs. He fights it, forces his arms to reach out. Fingers slicing through the water, digging into rocks and mud, the side of the river. Nails break, blood turning pink from his head. Lungs burning, legs heavy and weighed down, cold burning, his skin numb. Sight blurry and lungs  _burning_.

His chakra is unresponsive, and for the first time in his life, Tobirama fears the water. Knows it will bring him death even as he claws at the side of the river, desperate to be freed from its grasp.

His head breaks free. He gasps. The river crashes into him, pulling him down again. He bobs in the current, grabbing at exposed roots and dead grass, fingers slipping, unable to hold on.

A shadow over him, blocking out the pale sunlight - then a hand clenching the back of his collar, hauling him to safety. He hits a broad chest, coughs violently, water forced out of his lungs, burns in his throat. Breathes in ash and flames and weapon oil, clings to the dense fire-home-safety surrounding him. Grips the man tight, shaking uncontrollably with the overwhelming sense of fear and cold and  _alivealivealive_.

Madara holds him at the riverside, crouched down in the slick mud, all warm hands and soothing tones and critical eyes. Rubs patterns into the wet clothes stuck to his back, hushes his desperate sobs and holds him close in his arms.

_“He lost a brother there. Lost him to the current, and never found him. I think he’s worried more will drown there if we’re not careful.”_

"The river gives and takes." The old warning is murmured into soaked white hair. The deep baritone calms his nerves, rolls through him. Reminds him of quiet nights and soft touches beneath cool sheets, makes him feel safe and  _alive_.

Rough fingers card through his wet hair, scratching at his scalp with blunt nails, have him nuzzling further into the heat of him. "I wonder..."

_"You're all that keeps me here."_

The hands pause, silence broken only by the rough rasp of his breaths, the steady pulse in that broad chest, the rushing water behind him.

"Why did the river choose you?"

Madara's question sounds more like an answer. His dark eyes like the depths of the river itself, hair as dark as the curls that had fooled him with their innocence.

He finds he has little strength for such riddles of life, having had the river clawing at his insides and retched up his throat. Instead of trying to find an answer Tobirama closes his eyes tight and shivers into him, wishing above all else to crawl home and drag his Uchiha with him.

* * *

 

Madara stares down at the river, at the deep dark of the Nakano. He runs a thumb over the silk laying against his palm, rough pad scratching over the fine thread, the burgundy embroidery stitched fine into his talisman. Watches the water with a sick weight in his chest, black eyes flickering across the river's surface, searching for a glimpse, any hint of black, uncertainty clenching in his stomach.

Whispered confessions run through his mind, each word, each truth a fresh wound on his heart. He had meant it all, feels it still. Loves the man he once saw a demon. But he could not, cannot, forget that name, spat as an exception over one pale white shoulder in the dark of his room, blood and sweat and semen heavy in the air around them.

No matter his own warnings, Madara cannot help but come back here, day after day, week after week. Months have passed since his lover had nearly sank in its depths and yet the river still calls his name, whispers a beckoning each time he pauses long enough to listen.

Some wrongs may have been forgiven, wounds jagged and fresh in ways but heals at last. But some loses refuse even the passage of time, and a small child yet too thin to fill out armor haunts his nightmares like no other.

There's a light shuffling behind him, the hiss of clothes against the thicket of wild flowers, and he's whipping around, coarse black hair stinging his face as it whips with him-

And the air rushes from his lungs, eyes wide and heart frantic.

“There aren’t many who come here nowadays.”

His smile is all teeth. Face as pale as the death his presence promises, black eyes pits and soulless, clothes soaked through and dripping as he stands next to the ever reaching rhododendrons. Yet there is little Madara can deny that this being had once been Shisui. His cadence lilts just as his brother's had, his leaning stance a suggestion of the wound he'd taken on his left calf, curls bouncing in the wind just as their mother's does in his memories.

Shisui's eyes flicker to the small pouch in Madara's hand, a shadow crossing the demon's stolen face. The silk is clutched tighter, fresh pain pulsing at the blatant use of his loss, overshadowed only by the red flood of rage.

The river had taken his brother from him, had stolen his face and used it against the only person who had brought light into the shadows of his mind. Knowing he can do nothing regardless has his teeth baring, eyes spinning red and black, imprinting the image of the monster before him.

"He deserved his rest. You had  _no right_ to keep him."

"Aaahhhh, but what is it you said, dearest brother?" The demon wearing Shisui's face leans closer, still far out of reach, eyes still flickering to the talisman keeping him away. " _The river gives and takes_. And I always keep what's mine."

Madara leaves with the answers he never wanted, a weight in his chest not even time could chisel away. Finds his comfort, what little could be had, in the arms of a once-demon. And vows, above all else, that the Nakano will never steal again, never bear another face other than the brother it had dragged into its depths all those years before.


End file.
